


fate's a conartist

by Goodknight (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Goodknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dave and karkat become fiances</p>
            </blockquote>





	fate's a conartist

**Author's Note:**

> written for fuck-slayer who is amazing and who prompted here: http://fuck-slayer.tumblr.com/post/39547844145/i-still-want-fics-of-dave-and-karkat-being

If you’d gone to high school you might have been able to call Karkat your high school sweetheart. You were sitting, knees against your chest, opening a bag of Doritos, when you’d first considered marrying him. To complete the stereotype. To complete yourself. He’d had his hand on your arm and he was grumbling to himself while you hummed, and the concrete under you and the wall against you had felt hard and cold but he’d been peppery and soft against your side.

You’d flipped your hand around to squeeze his and moved your chips into your lap, looked at him, straight-faced. He’d asked what the hell you were doing. You’d thought: hell yes. You could look at that face forever and a day.

Coming back to earth after the game had been a culture shock of sorts. Karkat didn’t know how to order from Taco Bell. So, you spent a lot of your time, as Bro’s filthy rich successor and a kid who hadn’t had to attend math class since seventh grade, teaching Karkat about Texas. You had enough money to spend every day sitting outside convenience stores with your legs touching and your fingers covered in nacho seasoning.

It was weird, because you’d never thought you’d be committed. In the back of your head you’d known you weren’t going to be a famous rapper with a girl on each arm, but somehow that had been the only image you’d ever bothered to procure when you’d thought about being in a relationship. You weren’t sure how to romance Karkat. Sweet Bro and Hell Jeff’s subway date had been a joke, but for some reason you wanted that sort of simplicity.

Karkat had liked Subway well enough, and the more time you spent taking him to fast food restaurants and buying him super-sized soda, the less you fought your anti-domesticity attitude and started to think of him as your end game.

Karkat had always believed in fate. When he kissed you, he knew that somehow the universe had planned that kiss, mapped it out across its endless expanse and, like the beat of a butterfly’s wing, caused the tiny ripples of circumstance to shove you together.

You didn’t understand that, but Karkat’s continued presence in your apartment had assured you that you didn’t have to grow up to be your boyhood’s player/rapper/lady’s man/one night stand fantasy: you could wake up in the morning to the same alien boy, and you could settle down, too, if that was what you wanted now. If Karkat thought you were meant to be, well, you’d started to be really okay with that.

You’d taught Karkat how to get free drinks from McDonalds, spent the day sitting in the back booths whispering and drinking enough soda to kill you until it was time to go to the theatre where you were meeting some of your friends. He was shaking the ice around in the cup and swishing his straw, the lid half off and clattering. You’d put your arm over his shoulders and smiled just a little, like you’d been doing more now that he was a solid in your life. You couldn’t stop thinking about how you needed him.

 You’d bought a ring already, but you’d never seen yourself on a yacht proposing. You’d been thinking more recently that if you asked Karkat to marry you, it’d be spontaneous. When everything was feeling right. When Karkat was smiling, his little shoulders shaking like he was trying not to laugh and embarrass himself, when his lips were tight and his eyes grinned for them. The place wouldn’t matter; it would be all about the feeling. And in that moment, you loved Karkat so much; you couldn’t resist bending down on one knee, right there, with your tickets to the movie in your pocket and your friends just noticing you, under the neon lights of the snack bar.

Your friends had known instantly, of course, and they were excited, started to look over at you, putting their hands over their mouths, clapping, the whole building staring and awwing. Karkat looked confused.

You’d asked him to marry you, straight out, and you were holding a glittering red jewel on a plastic band painted silver, and you felt like this made sense for you right now. This is where you wanted your life to go.

And he said no, let’s watch the movie already, I don’t want to miss the previews.

Jade had seemed worried, and Rose blinked her dark eyes, and John said uhhh and you stood up, laughed humourlessly, and blamed it on something you hadn’t really cared about in years, told Karkat you’d been being ironic. You’d thought: fuck.

Rose lifted her eyebrows at you and tried to hold your hand throughout the movie, as though to comfort you, while Karkat put his head on your shoulder like nothing had happened at all.

Some mornings later, you’d woken up to find Karkat sitting ram rod straight on the couch, face surly, and a little hiss in his chest. He’d called you a dumbass, and you found out that not only did trolls not know how to order from Taco Bell, they also didn’t get married. Or propose.

If I’d fucking known, he’d told you. If I’d fucking known you were just being romantic…

When he kissed you, you’d thought: fate is a real ass bitch. And you believed in more than your ability to live the life of a married man. You believed that some dude in Denver tripping over his shoelaces really could be because of the great plan of an indistinguishable force. It really could all be because you and Karkat were meant to fuck on the living room floor.

The next time you asked him to marry you, he’d looked angry until he said yes. His clawed little fingers grabbed the front of your shirt and he tucked his fluffy head under your chin so you could see the McDonald’s workers bustling around, so you could see a lady bringing you a small box of Baked Apple Pie™, and, together, you learnt another really great way to get free shit from McDonalds. 


End file.
